


Hands Down

by shadowen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Siblings, Awkward Phil, Big sister Natasha, Deaf Clint Barton, Family Feels, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sibling Bonding, Teen Angst, foster dad nick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2597516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has totally turned gay, and it's all Natasha's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrohr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrohr/gifts).



> Mrohr gave me this wonderful prompt on Tumblr, and I couldn't help but run with it.
> 
> Just as a heads-up, there are a few single-sentence references to previous child abuse and a little bit of (enthusiastically consensual) underage sexy times, but hopefully neither will give anyone any trouble.

Clint has totally turned gay, and it’s all Natasha’s fault. 

Okay so he’s not gay exactly. It just turns out that, in addition to girls, he also happens to like guys, or at least one guy, which probably means he’s bisexual, or something like that. And it’s really only Natasha’s fault in that she’s the one with the stupid hot friend who’s making Clint feel all this shit in the first place. 

Finally, he knocks softly on Natasha’s door and sticks his head in through the crack. “Hey. Can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure.” She pushes the books on her bed into a pile to make room for him to sit. “What’s up?”

She’s only a year older, but sometimes Clint feels like there are whole lifetimes between them, like Natasha knows so much more than he ever will. He thinks she might be the only person who really knows him, and she always listens when he talks, which means that he ends up telling her everything. This time is no exception.

“It’s not the liking a guy part that’s freaking me out,” Clint concludes. He can’t look at Natasha, and he knows he must be bright red as he mumbles, “It’s just that... that I have to try to, y’know, not... not pop a boner whenever he’s around.”

He expects Natasha to laugh, but she doesn’t. She just says, “I wondered why you kept acting so weird.”

Clint sighs. “He thinks I’m a spaz, doesn’t he? He thinks I’m a stupid spaz, just like everybody else.”

“Hey,” Natasha says sharply. “You think I’d waste my time without someone who thought that about my little brother?” Slowly, Clint shakes his head. “Being deaf doesn’t mean you’re stupid or retarded or whatever those little shits at school say. It just means you have to work a little harder, and anyone who doesn’t recognize how tough and brave you are isn’t worth your time, okay?”

Clint’s not gonna cry. He’s not. Natasha’s seen him cry plenty of times, but he tries not to make a habit of it. After a moment, he asks quietly, “What do I do?”

Natasha gives him a sad, thoughtful look. “What do you want to do?”

He snorts. “Go to bed and sleep until everything’s better.” She smiles, and that makes him smile a little bit, too. “Barring that, I guess I just wanna hang out with you and Phil without keeping a pillow on my lap.”

“Hmm. Well, he thinks you’re hot, and I don’t hate the idea of him dating you, even if he’s got some issues,” she says. “So maybe you could try asking him out?”

Clint makes a strangled noise of horror.

“Or I could ask him out for you,” she suggests, and that seems somehow worse.

Clint buries his head in his hands with a groan until one part of the conversation catches up in his brain. “Wait. What do you mean he thinks I’m hot?”

Natasha grins. “Okay. Lemme tell you what Maria said he told Mel, because this is great.”  
So in the end, it really is Natasha’s fault.

***

Natasha doesn’t give a shit about ninety percent of humanity, and the remaining ten percent consists mostly of select individuals, grouped in order of importance. At the top of the ranking, in a category of his own, is Clint. Natasha would commit cold-blooded murder to protect Clint, and there are rumors that she has. Their father’s car accident was awfully convenient, after all.

Phil knows this, and Natasha can see in his eyes that he knows it when she corners him at his locker after third period. “You like my brother, right?”

He hides his panic well, but Natasha’s spent her high school career scaring the shit out of people who don’t want to be seen scared. “W-what? Of course. He’s... he’s nice.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. Phil is weird and awkward and kind of fucked up, but he’s also one of the sweetest, most genuine people she knows, which is the only reason she’s willing to have this conversation. “You told Mel you thought he was the hottest guy in school.”

Phil blanches. “I didn’t... He’s not... I mean, he is, but... I swear I’d never...”

“Calm down, Coulson. I’m not accusing you of being a perv,” she says, crossing her arms. “I just wanna know if you think he’s hot or if you think he’s hot _and_ you wanna take him on dates and buy him flowers and shit.”

Frowning in confusion, Phil asks, “Does Clint like flowers? I thought he had allergies.”

In a lot of ways, that’s all the answer Natasha needs, but she’s not letting him off the hook that easily. “You know what I mean, jackass. Answer the question.”

After a second, Phil heaves a sigh, his shoulders sagging. “I think he’s hot and I want to date him,” he admits. “I’m sorry. I know he’s your little brother, but he’s just so... so...” Phil makes an expansive gesture that somehow expresses a sense of everything Clint is that only Natasha has ever seemed to see. The fact that Phil sees it too speaks volumes.

She nods. “Good, because he’s way into you, so you should get him a present and ask him out. He likes stuffed animals.”

Phil blinks. “Wait. What?”

“You heard me.” She turns away as the bell rings and says over her shoulder, “Don’t wait too long. He’s crushing so hard, he’s gonna have a stroke.”

She’s almost all the way to her next class before apparently gets over his shock and catches up to her. “What kind of stuffed animal?” he asks earnestly.

Natasha smiles.

***

Phil is starting to think this was a bad idea. 

He figured the plush turtle pillow was right on target, with it's big squishy body and little stubby legs. Just the right balance of ridiculous and functional that he thinks Clint might like. He didn't count on the fact that he would have to get it into his locker, or that _having_ it in his locker would make getting his books a challenge. 

Wrestling with the ball of green fuzz between every class period, he keeps thinking of Clint and how easy it would be to screw all of this up. He spends lunch under a table in the corner of the art room, arms around his knees, making himself breathe in and breathe out and trying to convince his body that it wasn't actually dying.

Finally, the last bell rings, and Phil dashes to his locker. There isn’t really a rush; Clint is always kept a few minutes after class, and Natasha promised to stall if needed. The thought of any delay is unbearable, though, and Phil nearly throws his books to the ground in his haste to get out the big, soft toy.

"What the hell is that?" Melinda asks. She is three rows down and forever pretending not to be spying on the contents of Phil's locker.

"It's a present," Phil replies, tugging at the turtle, which is now lodged stubbornly in the narrow space.

"From who? Reptar?" She comes to watch over his shoulder and doesn’t offer to help.

"From _me_." He pulls harder, but the thing barely moves. It’s stuck on something, and no amount of twisting will get it loose.

"Oh. Oh, I get it," Melinda says, and Phil hates that everyone of his friends seemed to know what was going on before he did. She claps him on the shoulder, turning to go. "Well, good luck."

With a frustrated growl, Phil yanks hard on the turtle, and it jerks free of the locker with a loud _rip_ and a puff of cotton. Holding it up, Phil stares in horror at the long white gash on its underside and the stubby little foot that is now barely hanging on.

Melinda looks from the mangled toy to Phil’s face and promptly bursts out laughing. The students still milling in the hall give them both odd looks and a wide berth, but that’s not terribly unusual.

“Oh my god,” Melinda gasps, wiping away a tear. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, but your _face_. This is too good.”

Phil wants to tell her she’s an awful person, but he’s still staring dumbstruck at his ruined gift. It feels like a metaphor for the whole stupid idea.

“Aw, turtle, no. What happened to it?”

He whirls to find Clint standing nearby, studying the turtle with a sad expression. Melinda beats a quick retreat, laughing behind her hand. “I... I thought you were still in class,” Phil stammers, feeling like he’s going to vomit at any moment.

Clint shrugs. “Had a sub. Guess nobody told her to check in with Brainless.” He taps his forehead as he says it, the way the other kids do when they make fun of him, and Phil frowns.

It’s not just the fact that Clint is Natasha’s little brother that terrifies Phil. He’s plenty scared of Natasha, but not as scared as he is of being just one more jerk on the long list of people who’ve hurt Clint or the even longer list of those who’ve let him down.

“Here,” he says, holding out the poor turtle. “This was supposed to be for you, but it... Anyway. Sorry.”

To his surprise, Clint lights up. “You got me a present? How come?” Clint gently puts his arms around the turtle, then gives Phil a sudden panicked look. “Was I supposed to get you something? I didn’t know. Nobody told me there w-”

“No! No, you weren’t supposed to get me anything,” Phil assures him. The school crowd has thinned, but Melinda has been joined by Maria and Sam. Phil can see them whispering out of the corner of his eye. “I just wanted to... I mean, I kind’ve... I think you’re really great, and I’d really like it if we could maybe, I don’t know, do... stuff?”

Clint blinks. “Stuff.”

“Date-type stuff,” Phil clarifies. He’s trying very hard to keep his head up and not mumble, but Clint’s blank stare is making it impossible to attempt eye contact.

“Did Natasha put you up to this?” Clint demands, his grip making deep indentations in the plush toy. “Did she tell you to ask me out?”

“I... Yes, but she said y-”

Clint shoves the turtle into Phil’s face, and he stumbles back against the lockers in surprise. “I don’t need a pity date set up by my fucking sister,” Clint snaps, a faint slur in his words that surfaces when he’s upset. “And you’re a piece of shit for letting her bully you into it.”

“She didn’t bully me into anything!” Phil insists. He knows he’s shouting, and people are staring. Worse, Clint flinches back from the rising volume. “Clint, please. I wanted t-”

“Wanted to what? To help? To boost my fucking ego? Fuck you.” Clint’s face is red, and his voice is slipping on the syllables. Phil wants to... to hug him or kiss him or do absolutely anything to fix this unbelievable fuck up. 

He can’t even begin to form a new sentence before Clint is marching away, head down and fists clenched, and Phil is left standing in the hallway with nothing but the remains of an ill-planned gift.

Looking down at the tufts of stuffing now littering the floor, he mutters, “Well shit.”

***

Clint doesn’t show up at the car after school, and Natasha refuses to panic. She calls his phone, and it goes straight to voicemail. Leaving a quick message, she goes to search in the usual places - both the ones he likes and the ones where he hides - with no luck. Finally, she sends out a “wtf is clint?” text and immediately gets a call back from Maria with the story. She’s going to strangle Phil, but first she calls their foster dad, Nick, who tells her to come home and they’ll keep looking.

Two hours, forty-seven texts, and nineteen phone calls later, Clint comes home looking like he’s going to either throw up or break something, his face flushed and windblown. Before Natasha can say a word, Nick demands, “Where the hell have you been?”

Clint flinches, but his scowl is angry. “I walked home.”

“Excuse me?” Nick says, disbelieving. “I could’ve sworn you just said you walked home, but that’s crazy, since your school is five miles away and on the other side of the interstate.” 

Crossing his arms, Clint hunches his shoulders and mumbles, “I’ve walked further.”

“Not when you didn’t have to,” Nick snaps. “Not when your sister was waiting for you, looking all over the school to find your skinny ass. Not when walking apparently means you can’t pick up your damn phone.”

“I had a shitty day, okay?” Clint growls back. “I didn’t wanna talk to anybody.”

Nick slams his hand on the table, and Natasha and Clint both jump. “One word, Clint. You could’ve texted one word just to let us know you were okay.”

Natasha is absolutely certain that Nick would never hurt either of them, and that’s the only reason she stands up slowly instead of jumping to get between him and Clint. “Maria told me what happened,” she says quietly.

Clint lets out a bitter snort. “Of course she fucking did. All you guys tell each other everything, even if it’s none of your fucking business.”

“I didn’t know where you were.” Natasha is trying to keep her voice even, her face calm. There’s a time and place for shaking some sense into her little brother, but this isn’t it. “Maria was just trying to help. So was I.”

“I don’t need your fucking help!” he shouts, red and shaking. “I don’t need you to keep track of me every goddamn second, and I don’t need you to get me a fucing pity date.”

He storms out before Natasha can answer, and the slam of his door makes the windows rattle. Nick makes half a step to go after him, then thinks better of it and starts pacing the kitchen, muttering under his breath. Natasha and Clint have turned out to be a little more than he bargained for, she thinks, but he’s learning.

Finally, he stops and gives her a level glare. “You gonna tell me what the hell that was all about?”

Natasha sighs and sinks back into her seat at the table. For a second, she thinks about lying. If Nick has a problem with Clint liking boys, they may need to clear out fast, but Nick has given them no reason for distrust yet, so she takes a chance.

“You know my friend Phil?” she asks, and Nick frowns.

“Creepy white boy? Always looks like he’s hiding something?”

“He’s not creepy, he’s just awkward,” Natasha says. “He and Clint are in mutual pining, so I told Phil to make a move.”

Nick blinks at her for a second, then sits down next to her with a grunt. “Guess he made the wrong move.” That’s a succinct way of putting it, Natasha thinks, but Nick goes on, “You ever look at some people and figure they must have some kinda curse on ‘em or something, for all their bad luck?”

Natasha nods. “Yeah, I do.”

Nick shakes his head, leaning over to bump her shoulder. “Your goddamn brother.”

“Yeah,” Natasha leans into him, sighing. “I know.”

***

School the next day is a nightmare.

Between avoiding Natasha, avoiding Phil, and avoiding all of Natasha and Phil’s friends, Clint completely forgets to ignore the jerks that normally make his life hell, who are almost gleeful to have confirmation that he’s actually queer. They seem to savor the slurs and delight in making Clint clench his fists and fix his eyes on the whiteboard. If he moves, Clint knows he’s going to punch them, and if he looks at them, he’ll cry.

During afternoon break, he does both and ends up with a broken nose, a busted hearing aid, and a sick feeling in his stomach. His fighting is what got he and Nat kicked out of their last foster home, and he’d rather die than do that to her again, not when Nick has been so good for them. After a dressing down from the vice principal, he’s sent to the nurse’s office to get patched up and wait for someone to come get him. It will either be Natasha, Nick, or his social worker, and he’s not sure which would be worse.

Hatred for the universe in general burns in the back of his mouth, and because the universe hates him back, he walks into the nurse’s office to find Phil sitting on the narrow cot, huddled against the wall and looking miserable.

“What are you doing here?” It comes out sharp and angry, and Phil’s flinch is like a knife through Clint’s chest.

“I had a panic attack in biology,” Phil answers in a small, quiet voice that Clint can barely hear. His face is pale and drawn, and he seems somehow more fragile than people are supposed to be. Clint can feel the blood drying on his own face as Phil frowns at him. “Are you... Is your nose broken?”

“Yeah, probably.” His own voice is fuzzy and distant. Part of him wants to tell Phil that it’s his fault, that his stupid pity date made Clint even more of a target, but Phil looks like he’s had enough piled on him for one day. Instead, Clint grabs some wipes to get himself cleaned up and asks, “What happened in biology?”

Phil curls in on himself. “Nothing, it was just... I forgot it was dissection day, and I...” He glances at Clint and takes a deep breath. “I spent some time in a hospital a few years ago, and I used to have these nightmares about getting... getting strapped down and cut open and...” He breaks off with a shiver, and Clint has never wanted anything more than he wants to curl up on that cot with Phil and never let go.

“They started dissecting, and you freaked out,” Clint finishes, and Phil nods miserably. He’s heard the story about the kid who had a meltdown freshman year and wound up in a psych ward, but no one ever knew the kid’s name. Suddenly, Clint does.

“Normally, I can keep it down long enough to get somewhere safe or get to my meds,” Phil tells him, and Clint wonders how Phil can possibly trust him with this. “But I was still upset from... from yesterday, and it came on so fast...” He shakes his head, like some of that panic is still rattling around inside. “I don’t even know how I got here. I guess somebody brought me.”

Clint opens his mouth to say something - he doesn’t know what - and the nurse appears with Nick in tow. Nick looks from Clint to Phil and narrows his eye. The patch makes him look scary, but as intimidating as he can be, Clint’s never met anyone more fair and steady than Nick.  
“What was it this time?” he asks as the nurse manhandles Clint over to the cot and sets to taping up his nose with a long-suffering expression.

“The - _ouch!_ \- the gay thing,” Clint replies, not looking at Phil. “And, y’know, the usual.”  
Nick nods. He’s had a few talks with the vice principal about the bullying problem, but it hasn’t done much good. “How long did you hold out?”

“They cornered me after fifth period. I didn’t take a swing ‘til they started shoving me.” That was only partly true. He hadn’t taken a swing until, _I’m gonna make your faggot boyfriend suck my cock, just like your slut sister_ , but they’d already started shoving him by then.

The nurse steps back and doesn’t even bother giving Clint instructions, just hands him some gauze and an ice pack and shoots Nick a disapproving look.

Nick ignores her, tilting up Clint’s face to study the damage. “You’re getting self-defense classes for Christmas. You and Natasha.” Clint blinks, surprised, but he barely has time to process before Nick turns to Phil, “What about you? Somebody coming to get you?”

Phil looks up, startled, and shakes his head. “No, sir. My mom can’t leave work.”

With grunt, Nick fishes a phone out of his pocket and hands it to Phil. “Call her. You look like you’re gonna pass out if you even think about going back to class.”

Any objections Mrs. Coulson has are apparently soothed when Phil hands the phone to _Detective Nick Fury, ma’am, Natasha and Clint’s dad_ , and Clint is too preoccupied with the thought of having Phil in his house to deal with the adjectiveless _dad_.

Finally, arrangements are made, check-out forms are signed, and Clint and Phil follow Nick out across the visitor’s parking lot to the car, both of them looking absolutely anywhere but each other.

***

Phil loves Natasha and Clint’s house. It’s not especially nice or big or anything, but it always seems full and bright in a way that his own home hasn’t since his dad died. Even now, shaking on his feet, he feels a little better just being here.

Fixing him with a glare that Phil is sure could see through concrete, Mr. Fury asks, “You’re eighteen, right?” Slowly, Phil nods. Mr. Fury points to Clint, who has his arms crossed like he’s trying to fold himself away, and says, “He’s sixteen. You understand what I’m saying?” Phil swallows hard and nods again. “Good. I’m working late, but I’m leaving some cash for dinner, if you feel up to eating. Nat knows you’re both here, and she oughta be home right after school. You and me? We’re gonna have a talk about some things, tomorrow,” he tells Clint, who gives a weak nod of his own, still not looking at Phil. “Alright. Now you two go lay down and rest for a while.”

They shuffle out of the kitchen with murmurs of “Yes, sir”, and it takes Phil a moment to register that the order to “go lay down and rest” leaves him with three terrible options. He could lie by himself on the couch in the living room, which would be awkward, or in Natasha’s bedroom, which would be awkward and rude, or he can try to rest in Clint’s bed _with Clint_ , which shuts his brain down so fast he nearly has another attack. At a loss, he trails after Clint into the hallway and pauses.

Clint glances back at him and catches his eye. Phil isn’t sure if it’s an accident, but now they’re looking at each other and can’t seem to look away. There’s a lot of things hanging in that look, but the one thing that matters right at that second is that neither of them wants to be alone. Without a word, he follows Clint into the bedroom and kicks of his shoes, crawling under the covers at a nod from Clint.

Exhaustion hits him like a brick wall, and there’s no more awkwardness or nerves, just a soft, warm bed and the soothing sound of Clint changing out of his bloodied clothes. Phil thinks about opening his eyes to catch a glimpse of Clint’s bare chest and lean muscles, but that impulse seems so much less important than burrowing deeper into the blankets. He’s asleep by the time Clint climbs in beside him, but he relaxes a little more, just the same.

***

Predictably, Clint wakes up with a boner.

Also predictably, he realizes that what woke him was Natasha flipping the light switch to get his attention. She’s leaning against the doorframe with an expression that is somewhere between irritated and bemused. Phil, of course, is sprawled half on top of Clint, dead to the world and pressing his knee against, of course, the aforementioned predictable boner.

Clint really hates his life.

“I’m ordering Chinese for dinner,” she says, speaking clearly so that Clint can read her lips.

He remembers his broken hearing aid and the cost of replacements and hates his life even more.

Sighing, he nods and lets himself sink back down into the pillow. He closes his eyes, and Natasha leaves the light on when she goes. To Clint’s surprise, she closes the door behind her, and Phil stirs in his sleep, apparently roused by the sound.

His head is tucked against Clint’s shoulder, his arm around Clint’s waist, and he curls inward with a yawn, pressing himself tight around Clint. For that one second, everything in the universe is perfect, until Phil shifts, his thigh rubbing along Clint’s groin, and Clint remembers his stupid boner just as Phil blinks hazily up at him.

Clint doesn’t dare move. He just watches wakefulness creep slowly into Phil’s sleep-flushed face, and damned if it isn’t the best thing he’s ever seen. Phil’s brow furrows, like he can’t quite remember how he got here, then his eyes clear, and he starts to draw back, mumbling what looks like an apology.

Right. Of course. Just because Phil’s supposed to pretend that he likes Clint doesn’t mean he wants to touch him.

Suddenly, Phil freezes, eyes wide, knee wedged firmly between Clint’s legs, and Clint prays for a heart attack or an aneurysm or ninjas or _something_ to kill him quickly and save them both this awkwardness. He looks away, but Phil catches the edge of his jaw with gentle, calloused fingertips and tilts his face so that they’re eye to eye, nose to nose, and abruptly, gloriously, mouth to mouth.

Clint’s had sort-of girlfriends, so kissing in general isn’t new, but _this_ is something entirely different. Not because it’s better or because it’s with a boy, but because it’s _Phil_ , who is screwed up and perfect and totally getting a boner of his own. Clint can feel it poking his hip, and the thought that it’s because of him, that kissing him is turning Phil on, makes Clint’s breath come a little shorter.

He leans into the kiss, hungry for more, and pain shoots up the front of his face. “God fucking dammit motherfucking shit fuck Jesus fucking _ow_!”

“...ou okay?” is all Clint catches of whatever Phil says, but the lines of worry in his forehead and the shine in his eyes say everything Clint needs to know.

“Fine. I’m fine,” Clint assures him. The pain is already abating to a low throb, and Clint is already gravitating slowly back toward Phil’s mouth, now red and wet with kissing. If Phil has objections, they seem to matter less than his own fascination with Clint’s lips as they approach his.

This time is slower, searching, both of them careful of Clint’s damaged nose, and Phil is all gentle caution as he moves to stretch out on top of Clint. His weight presses Clint down into the mattress, covering him, trapping him in a suffocating cell of fire. It’s too much, and Clint is on the edge of saying he can’t breathe when Phil rolls his hips, making all of Clint’s nerve endings cascade into a frenzy of explosions, white hot bursts against black oblivion. He’d be embarrassed if it didn’t feel so amazing.

When he blinks the blurriness out of his eyes, he finds Phil flushed and panting, shaking with the effort of holding completely still. “Are you okay? Is that okay?” Phil asks, frantically. His face is close enough that Clint can see the teeth marks in his swollen lips and the few bright freckles at the end of his nose. “If you don’t want t-”

“I want to,” Clint says, and it’s so much easier and so much harder than he expected. “I want to,” he says again, and the second time tastes like a promise in his mouth.

He slides his arms around Phil’s waist and pulls him down until their bodies are slotted together again. His dick is sensitive and chafing inside his jeans, but it’s worth it to feel Phil’s hard-on digging into his thigh. Carefully, he bends his knee, and Phil gasps, his breath hot on Clint’s neck.

“Do you want me to...? I mean, I could...” Clint doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do, and Phil seems at a loss. Lacking any other ideas, Clint reaches down between them and cups the hard bulge in Phil’s khakis. 

Phil presses his face into the curve of Clint’s shoulder and makes some unheard sound that vibrates into Clint’s core. He works his hips, rubbing himself against Clint’s hand until he shakes and shudders, and Clint feels his cock spasm and the thin fabric go damp.

It feels like forever that they just lie there, breathing, chests rising and falling just out of sync, and Clint thinks maybe he understands why people are supposed to wait to have sex, because now at least two thirds of his brain will be fixated on making that happen again.

Suddenly, Phil sits up so fast that he knees Clint in the side and scrambles backward looking wrecked and terrified. For a second, Clint thinks maybe Phil didn’t want this after all, and his heart falls until Phil says, “Your dad’s going to arrest me.”

Clint laughs. “He’s not going to arrest you. He might buy you condoms and have a talk with your mom, though.”

“Oh god,” Phil groans, burying his face in his hands. He’s saying something else, and Clint snags his hearing aid off of the nightstand in time to catch, “...-eally even dating. Not that there’s an-”

“Wait. What?”

The door flies open, startling Phil so badly that he flails and nearly falls off the bed before Clint catches him. Natasha just stands there, glaring at them, one eyebrow raised in scorn. “Is this gonna be a thing?” she demands. “Because if this is gonna be a thing, you have _got_ to be quieter.”

Phil turns a violent shade of red and lets out a miserable groan, hiding his face behind Clint’s shoulder, mumbling something that sounds like, “Oh my god.”

Clint would be back to hating his life, but his brain is still basking in afterglow and the fact that his room smells like sex and how soft and warm and _amazing_ Phil is. He just gives Natasha a shit-eating grin and shrugs.

She narrows her eyes, looking from Clint to the hunched shape of Phil still hiding behind him. Finally, she asks Clint, “Are we good?”

Natasha doesn’t give a shit about ninety percent of humanity, but she never could stand Clint being mad at her, even when they were little. He always forgets that until he remembers how good it feels to not be mad at her anymore. “We’re good,” he says. “Sorry I was a dumbass.”

“Yeah, well, I’m used to it.” She gives him half a smile and waves a hand at him. “I’d hug you, but you’re all gross. You guys better clean up so Nick doesn’t have Phil arrested.”

From behind Clint, Phil groans again. Natasha just shakes her head and pulls the door shut as she leaves.

***

There are a lot of things that Natasha wants. 

She wants to be a dancer and a teacher and a doctor and a queen. She wants to wear pretty dresses and read terrible books and fall in love and break world records. She wants to call Nick _dad_ and mean it. She wants to go off to college and know without a doubt that she will have a home to come back to for every holiday and short break and bad weekend and whenever she needs some time to feel safe. Some of these things she can have, some she can’t, but the one thing that is non-negotiable, the one thing beyond _want_ , is for her beautiful, big-hearted, bratty baby brother to be happy.

When he comes into the living room, hair damp and cheeks flushed, face twitching like he’s trying to keep from grinning like an idiot, she thinks that maybe he finally can be.

The livid bruise and dried blood around his nose sort of ruins the effect, though. “Do you just run into their fists, or do you have some kind of magnet embedded in your face?” she asks, and he hits her with a pillow as he flops onto the couch.

“Maybe they think I look better this way,” he replies, but it’s only half of a joke. Their dad used to hit him in the face, too.

Another thing Natasha wants is to never have to think about that ever again. She makes herself smile and nudges his knee with her foot. “So....?”

“So.” Clint sighs. “So you were right, I guess.”

“I usually am.”

He shoves her shoulder, but his grin is creeping through. “He likes me. I thought you put him up to it, but he really does.”

“Why would I want you to go out with someone who didn’t like you?" Natasha's spent too much of her life fighting back the voices that told Clint he was unwanted and unloved for that to make sense, and Clint ought to know it.

"To make me feel better?" He hugs his knees to his chest, smile fading. "Because you thought that, y'know, that I couldn't get anyone to like me on my own."

Natasha blinks. After a moment, she reaches over and lightly slaps the back of Clint's head, then she moves over on the couch and curls up against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. "Guessing he convinced you."

Clint's nod stirs her hair. "We talked, after you left," he says. "Not a lot, but... I mean, I think we're dating now, so that's good."

_That's good._ He's practically vibrating with the energy of new love, and all he has to say is, _That's good._ Natasha sighs, "As long as you're happy."

"Um. Hi?"

Phil lingers in the doorway, shower damp and wearing Clint's clothes and looking so goddamn nervous that Natasha decides right then that he's part of the family, no ifs, ands, or buts. "Hey, come pick out a movie for us," she says, turning on the TV as he hesitates.

"I should... My mom will probably be here, soon." He moves like he's going to leave, but he doesn't actually go anywhere, eyes fixed on Clint like there's no one else in the world.

“Nick talked to your mom. You’re staying with us tonight, and you’re both taking a sick day from school tomorrow.” She walks over to grip his shoulders and steer him toward the couch. He starts to protest, and she cuts him off with, “Yes, I will bring you your homework. Now sit.”

Phil sinks obediently onto the couch and seems to relax the moment his skin makes contact with Clint’s. The looks they give each other can only be described as _besotted_ , and Natasha rolls her eyes, resuming her place at Clint’s other side so that he’s sandwiched between them. She’ll admit that being here, having them here together, makes her relax a little, too.

They put on _Rio Bravo_ , because Clint has mastered the pitiful pout and puppy dog eyes, and dinner arrives during the opening credits. When Natasha returns with bags of take-out, Dean Martin is stumbling drunk around the screen and Clint and Phil are making out, oblivious to anything else. They only break apart when she sets the bags on the coffee table, and Clint asks, “Did you get potstickers?”

She hands him the styrofoam container, and he beams back at her, settling in with Phil’s arm around his shoulders. They share a plate and keep stealing food off of Natasha’s, and Natasha dozes off toward the end of the movie, full of lo mein, with her head on Clint’s shoulder, thinking that this, finally, is what it feels like to be home.


End file.
